


Sailor Trouble

by uleanblue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Now with BONUS Added Absurdity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-03-02 22:01:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2827589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uleanblue/pseuds/uleanblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione Granger attempts to restore the Founder's Relics, with unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

** Sailor Trouble **

  
  


_ A disjointed series of vignettes with little to no narrative cohesion. Read at your own peril.  _

  
  


_ Haha, just kidding.  _

  
  


_ Maybe.  _

* * *

  
  


Cloistered in her office, Hermione Granger stares pensively at the battered, forlorn collection of items in front of her. 

  
  


Locket, cup, and diadem. 

  
  


They lay atop the smooth, fine grained surface of her desk, lifeless, blackened fragments devoid of any hint of the ancient Founders’ magic that had imbued them, casualties of the perverted whims of a psychopath. 

  
  


If Hermione has her way, all of that is about to change. 

  
  


Technically, she is operating under the general auspices of her department--that is, if one uses the broadest and most vague definition of ‘permission’ imaginable. She’s been given the opportunity to explore the possibilities of repairing the artifacts--superficially, at least. 

  
  


No one imagines or expects that she will be able to actually do anything more than affect basic cosmetic repairs when they hand her the metaphorical ball. Of course, no one expects or imagines the unorthodox methods she intends to employ to achieve her objective. 

  
  


Because she is  _ Hermione Bloody Granger _ , and she has not just spent two years of exhaustive research to sit back and cast a glorified  _ Reparo _ . 

  
  


She has not only taken the ball and run with it, she has clutched grimly onto it like an American quarterback, mowed through all obstacles and bolted from the field. 

  
  


What she is about to attempt is untried, unprecedented, and...well, not entirely  _ authorized _ . 

  
  


It is experimental. 

  
  


It is dangerous. 

  
  


And there is the minute, but inescapable possibility that she could actually make the damage  _ worse _ . 

  
  


If she succeeds, however, the implications could be...breathtakingly  _ vast _ . 

  
  


She absently fingers the crimson pashmina scarf draped around her neck and glances at the antique porcelain clock perched on the corner of her desk. 

  
  


It is time.  

  
  


_ Go big or go home _ ,  _ right? _

  
  


With the door locked and the equivalent of a Muggle ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign charmed on the handle, she sucks in a deep breath, taps her wand against her thigh and proceeds to clear a large space in the center of the room. 

  
  


Inside the perimeter of the meticulously painted circle of runes, the relics spin in midair in a complex, glowing orbit that she controls with the sheer force of her magic. The words of the spell she has modified to suit her purpose fall from her lips, ancient and obscure, each syllable a catalyst that will unlock the very molecular structure of the objects, then rebuild, reform and ultimately recreate each item anew. 

  
  


It is difficult. Intense. 

  
  


The demands on her concentration and her stamina are great, and there is a moment when a small bead of sweat runs into her eye and she  _ blinks _ , and that tiny fraction of a second is all it takes. 

  
  


The still ragged edge of one fragment of the diadem wobbles and slips out of its orbit by a mere centimeter, nicking the fleshy base of her palm before she can react. She refocuses, pushes her magic hard to nudge the piece back into its place before the momentum of the spell is lost, and only when it is too late does she see the single, dark plump droplet of blood that has welled up, dangling from the base of her hand. 

  
  


Her eyes widen. Her heart skips, stutters, and time seems to unspool in slow motion as she watches it drop into the now incandescent circle of runes. 

  
  


Oh,  _ shit. _

  
  


A blinding  _ whoosh _ of pure, uncontrolled magic overtakes her, followed by a rush of such intense heat it sucks the air from her lungs. She holds herself steady, her mouth continuing to form the words of the incantation to the bitter end despite the acrid, icy clench of fear that seizes her and sends her brain into a horrified spiral of  _ oh fuck I take it back I take it back what was I thinking go home I’ll just go home go home oh fuck please NOT MY EYEBROWS--  _

  
  


Her last thought before blacking out is the mortifying certainty that not only has she completely cocked up the whole operation, but she’s also managed to  _ immolate  _ herself in the process and that this stunning blaze of incompetence will forever mark her epitaph. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ One hour later… _

  
  


She comes to, dizzy and weak, sprawled face down on the floor. Her face, neck and hands are absolutely throbbing with pain and blistered but she considers herself lucky to still have skin.  

  
  


Slowly rolling onto her side she finds she is eye level with the closest relic--the cup-- and she  _ gasps _ \--

  
  


It is  _ whole _ , its surface once again gleaming and unblemished. With shaky, hesitant fingers she reaches out and touches its still warm surface, and is instantly filled with a wild, soaring elation. 

  
  


She has done it. 

  
  


All three relics are perfect, intact-- and perhaps most unbelievably, most importantly,  _ humming with magic.  _

  
  


She decides right then that eyebrows are  _ overrated  _ and a glamour is indeed a small price to pay for being the one who has finally mended what was considered hopelessly, irretrievably broken.  

  
  


In her breathless, stunned excitement she doesn’t notice that her scarf is gone. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ Two weeks later... _

  
  


No amount of research could ever prepare her to be the new Darling of the Wizarding World. 

  
  


While she knows a certain measure of praise for her accomplishment is to be expected, she does not anticipate and simply cannot fathom the rabid, almost frightening fervor with which she is embraced and lauded. 

  
  


It is like being squished into an awkward, too tight hug at a party by the eccentric, slightly creepy older relative who isn’t above copping a feel. 

  
  


Oh, and the attention, the unending, fascinated scrutiny with the most banal aspects of her life--as if her preferred laundry soap is of any relevance whatever to anyone but her,  _ honestly _ . It is something she can’t take in stride or ever grow unaccustomed to, and she gains a wholly new and profound understanding of what Harry has been subjected to over the years. 

  
  


_ The stooped, elderly wizard catches her off guard, clamping onto her arm as she draws her wand to unlock her office door, his grip talon like and shockingly strong. His skin is gray, heavily mottled with age spots. His eyes are eerily pale, milky white with cataracts, and Sweet Holy Merlin, he smells as though something has crawled into his robes and died. His breath is revoltingly sour as he closes in, jabbing a withered, bony finger at her accusingly. “Shoulda left well enough alone, girlie--messin about with things yeh don’t understand.”  _

  
  


_ He then rears back, eyeing her up and down, and leers, “Pretty little legs yeh got there, girlie.”  _

  
  


_ She struggles not to gag as he moves fully into her personal space. Where the bloody hell was security when you needed them?  _

  
  


“ _Bet yeh got a pretty little cunt, too. Whatta yeh say you and me ‘ave a go, eh?” before waggling the sparse wiry hairs that would have once been his eyebrows._

  
  


_ Aurors swiftly flank the old man, hustling him unceremoniously from the building, but just before they disappear around the corner at the end of the corridor he cranes his head back toward her, his indignant glare sliding into a devious smirk and Hermione takes a few abortive steps in pursuit before convincing herself that it’s just a trick of the light, that she did not just see both his eyes darken to a deep, unclouded blue.  _

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ One month later... _

  
  


Mere minutes before the ceremony to unveil the restored Founders’ Relics, Hermione sits, tucked away in her office, spinning distractedly in her chair, watching the clock with a growing sense of stomach churning trepidation.

  
  


Because all things considered, she would probably find having all of her teeth forcibly extracted without the benefit of anesthesia preferable to standing in front of a room full of people and giving a speech. 

  
  


Her anxiety has nothing to do with the speech itself--either the content or her ability to march straight up to the lectern and   _ get it done _ . 

  
  


After all, she is Hermione Jean  _ Bloody  _ Granger, and she has never backed down from a challenge, nor has she ever done anything halfway--which, as any self respecting perfectionist knows, means obsessing...to the exclusion of almost everything, though at least in this instance she has managed not to overtly neglect her personal hygiene.  

  
  


No, what she is experiencing feels more like being an insect caught under a magnifying glass, waiting for the focused blast of sunlight that will burn her to ash. 

  
  


Hermione hopes that tonight will present a symbolic first step back toward the obscurity and peace she longs for. 

  
  


A knock at the door jolts her out of her thoughts. She glances up as a familiar shock of dark hair leans in through the now open door. 

  
  


“ Hermione! There you are! Why are you  _ still _ \--we’re going to be  _ late _ . Don’t make me drag you out of here.”

  
  


“ Is my all-consuming dread  _ really  _ that obvious?” 

  
  


Harry chuckles.

  
  


It is the wrong thing to do. 

  
  


“You can wipe that smirk off your face or I can remove it for you.” she snaps. “Or do I have to remind you what happened before your speech last year?” 

  
  


Harry grimaces, remembering all too well the reporter who sneakily cast a  _ sonorus _ on him as he attempted to vomit discreetly--after the rather ill advised consumption of a plate full of raw oysters and champagne-- into a bucket backstage on the last anniversary of the war. “I’d rather you didn’t, actually.”

  
  


“My point exactly.”

  
  


The door swings open again. Ron strides in, bright eyed and eager, and Hermione’s guess as to  _ why _ is borne out by his words, “Come on, then. Don’t want to miss cocktail and hors d'oeuvre hour.”

  
  


Almost reflexively, her eyes roll. “Honestly, is that all you care about?” she asks irritably, as if she doesn’t already know the answer. Seriously, Ron would attend the opening of a public lavatory if there was free food and booze offered. 

  
  


Ron has the audacity to look confused, as if they’d not clashed over this exact issue a million times before. Typical. “But...it’s  _ open bar _ ,” he whines, his eyes swivelling back and forth between Harry, who wisely chooses to play Switzerland and keep himself removed from conflict, and Hermione, who could probably incinerate actual paper with the sheer heat of her disapproving glare. “What’s your problem?”

  
  


Before she can bristle herself into a full on tirade, Harry cuts in. “Hermione’s just a bit nervous about her speech,” he explains with the calm, patient cadence of one used to speaking to a mental defective.  

  
  


“Nonsense,” Ron declares, with his usual, dismissive lack of insight. “You’ll be brilliant as always. Look, It’s one short little speech, and then after comes the heavy drinking and if you play your cards right, you might not even remember the evening at--what are you staring at?” 

  
  


“A gigantic bullet I seem to have miraculously dodged.”

  
  


“What’s a bullet?”

  
  


“Nevermind,” she says flatly. 

  
  


Harry takes that as his cue to swoop in, curving his arm around her waist and guiding her toward the door. “Come on, then. Don’t worry,” he offers reassuringly, “everything is going to be perfect.”

  
  


“Famous last words,” she mutters as she deftly flicks her wand to shut off the lights and lock her office. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ One hour later... _

  
  


The long cool stem of a wine glass is clutched gratefully in her fingers as Hermione edges her way through pockets of mingling dignitaries, occasionally passing familiar faces, nodding and smiling politely until she arrives near the entrance of the Great Hall, where fewer partygoers are congregated. With a relieved sigh, she turns her back on the crowd and takes a long, fortifying drink. 

  
  


As Harry predicted, her speech and dedication of the restored Founder’s Relics went off without a hitch, though there were a few seconds where she feared she would hyperventilate when she first caught a glimpse of the vast sea of people crammed into the Hall.

  
  


Her gaze sweeps over to the magnificent glass display case that has taken craftsmen the better part of a month to complete. It provides a dramatic centerpiece to the room, rising nearly to the ceiling, its hand carved, polished oak frame embellished with elaborate medallions depicting the Four Founders. 

  
  


Even now, seeing all four relics together, intact, and ensconced on pale satin, knowing that she is the one who made it possible, still feels somehow unreal.

  
  


“ I must say, what you’ve accomplished here is truly some of the most extraordinary spellwork I believe I’ve ever seen,” says a deep, resonant voice from behind her.

  
  


She whirls around. There is still that deeply ingrained part of her that is quick to deflect, to be humble and self effacing in the face of praise, but she manages to stop herself from brushing off the compliment. “Thank you,” she smiles, politely. 

  
  


The first thing she notices is that he is strikingly handsome--tall, lean but well proportioned, lightly tanned. Thick brown hair glints with hints of gold from the rows of magical golden spheres that hover overhead like miniature suns, illuminating the Great Hall in a warm ambient glow.  His robes are open, revealing a well tailored dark grey pinstriped suit that complements his vibrant blue eyes. 

  
  


He returns her smile. Bloody Hell. Even his teeth are beautiful. 

  
  


And suddenly, she is inexplicably, absurdly grateful that she remembered to wear her lucky knickers. 

  
  


“You’re quite welcome.” He extends a hand. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. Marv Griffin.”  

  
  


_ Marv...Marv?   _ She tries to conceal her reaction as she shakes his hand, but she knows there must be a tiny, yet visible furrowing of her brow at  _ He Who is Oddly Named. _

  
  


“Hermione Granger.”

  
  


He chuckles, a self deprecating expression on his face. “I know. It’s... _ yeah _ . Let’s just say Mum had an affinity for a particular Muggle chat show host, and I paid the price.” 

  
  


_ Way to make a great first impression, Granger.  _

  
  


“I’m sorry, that was rude of me--” she offers sheepishly

  
  


“No, no, it’s fine. Really. Introductions are the worst part, actually,” he replies, wryly. “I must have spent my entire adolescence plotting to change it.” 

  
  


“Oh, no. Did you, really?” She giggles despite herself and decides that the evening is definitely looking up. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ Thirty minutes later... _

  
  


“Over on the far end, there, what is that?” Marv gestures with his half empty wineglass to one of the items in the new display case. 

  
  


She is nearly through her second glass of pinot, and as she has not eaten anything substantial since she arrived,  is feeling rather... _ tingly _ . 

  
  


She is also having unexpected, rather  _ naughty _ thoughts about her new conversation partner--who just happens to be attentive, engaging, and  _ smart _ \--and has secretly decided that a more appropriate name for him would be something like  _ Dreamy McHeartthrob _ or better yet,  _ Sex on Two Legs _ . 

  
  


It’s ridiculous. And inappropriate. And still she feels a fleeting, impulsive curiosity about the possibility of hooking up with him later. 

  
  


She chides herself to focus on something other than his pants.   

  
  


“I’m not entirely sure. It was only uncovered here about three weeks ago, during some last minute restoration work on the castle. If I were to guess, I would say it looks like some sort of nautical talisman.”

  
  


“Fascinating. How old would you say it is?”

  
  


“Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to establish its provenance, but I have come across some anecdotal evidence that suggests it may have been presented as a gift from the Spanish Ministry during the early Elizabethan--”

  
  


A sharp, nasally voice interrupts them. 

  
  


“ Miss Granger, the  _ Woman of the Hour _ ,” Rita Skeeter says smarmily, “I would simply  _ love _ to get an exclusive quote from you regarding your...incredible  _ achievement _ .” Rita stands, tottering in bright green dragonhide pumps paired with a truly eye watering canary yellow sequined dress suit with lime green feather epaulets, hair pinned up in brassy yellow ringlets. 

  
  


Hermione has seen circus clowns with better fashion sense. 

  
  


“Yes, I’m sure you would,” Hermione replies coolly.

  
  


Rita titters, then offers a cold, shark like smile. There is a garish, obvious smear of lipstick across her front teeth. “You should know,” she begins, conspiratorially, “that a number of people--highly placed,  _ influential _ people, mind you, believe that  _ all this _ ,” she makes a sweeping gesture towards the Founders’ Items, “is nothing more than an elaborate transfiguration that you plan to use as a precursor to launching a political career. Care to comment on that?” she asks, a perceptible slurring to her words. 

  
  


Hermione narrows her eyes, studying her. 

  
  


Clearly, Rita must have overindulged in the free booze because it would take a special kind of reckless insanity for her to even consider attempting to tarnish Hermione’s image right now. 

  
  


Not only is she practically bloody untouchable, she still holds the means to utterly ruin Rita.

  
  


All she needs is a reason. 

  
  


All at once, part of her fervently hopes Rita gives her one. 

  
  


Taking a step forward, Hermione locks eyes with the slightly tipsy reporter. “Are you suggesting the Ministry would endorse a fraud?” Her tone is deceptively mild. 

  
  


“Not knowingly, of course,” Rita retorts snidely.  

  
  


“ So perhaps you’re inferring that the French Ministry’s authentication of the restoration is somehow suspect? It would be terribly  _ unfortunate _ for you to inadvertently instigate a diplomatic incident, given your... _ circumstances _ ,” she emphasizes, infusing her smile with every ounce of cold malice she can muster. 

  
  


Rita falters visibly, licks her lips, then titters uncomfortably as the unspoken subtext of Hermione’s words sink in. “No, nothing of the sort,” she assures her, her voice abruptly becoming conciliatory, “that’s just the word on the street. I hear these things, you know. Finger on the pulse of public opinion and all that.”

  
  


“How very interesting,” Hermione says, with the flat, detached tone of one who finds it anything but. 

  
  


“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to get a statement from the Minister.” 

  
  


“Yes. Good luck with that.” 

  
  


Without another moment's hesitation Rita retreats, blending into the crowd despite the gaudy horror of her outfit. 

  
  


“She’s quite the vulture.” 

  
  


She swivels around to face Marv, and he is regarding her with interest, his eyes alight with a dark, almost predatory eagerness. 

  
  


The flush of excitement she feels in response surprises her, and her momentary irritation evaporates. “No offense, but calling her that is an insult to vultures. They at least serve a purpose,” she says lightly. 

  
  


“None taken.” Flashing her a dazzling smile, he adds, “nicely done, by the way.”

  
  


She ducks her head, a smile curving her lips. “Thanks.What were we talking about, again?”

  
  


“Actually, I was about to see if I could possibly convince you to describe precisely how you pulled this off.”

  
  


It occurs to her with a jolt that apart from one or two members of the Ministry’s Academic Research Department asking a few cursory questions, not a single person has expressed any real interest in the process or the spell she spent two full years developing until now. 

  
  


Oh, he is  _ good. _

  
  


“Alright,” she says, draining her glass. “But I’m going to need another drink first.”

  
  


He moves to stand alongside her, and the press of his hand on the small of her back as he maneuvers her toward the bar sends her pulse rate up several notches. 

  
  


“After you.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


After twenty five minutes spent locating an empty table where they can sit down with their drinks, during which time Marv shoots several meaningful, heated glances her way, her lucky knickers are decidedly damp. 

  
  


“So you’re an Unspeakable, then?”

  
  


“ Not exactly--I’m afraid it’s all very hush hush, as much as I would love to let you in on all my secrets. Now. Enough about me. Go ahead.  _ Spill _ .”

  
  


“ Okay,” she says, leaning forward eagerly. “So there were actually two important components to the problem. The first was in addressing the physical damage to the items, which was  absolutely  _ catastrophic _ , especially with Ravenclaw’s diadem. The structural issues, though, were intertwined with the disruption of the relics’ magical fields--an unfortunate result of having been corrupted with some truly heinous dark magic.” 

  
  


“That sounds like it would have been insurmountable. Obviously you discovered a workaround.”

  
  


“ Indeed,” she replies, “I utilized certain facets of Muggle molecular particle separation theory to first isolate the chemical composition of the items themselves, then to identify what, if any     _ original _ trace magical residue remained. A little bit like unlocking strands of DNA.”

  
  


He stares at her, his expression a curious mixture of surprise and admiration, yet something lurks in his eyes, something that Hermione can only define as  _ calculating _ . “You realize what you’ve done is brilliantly innovative--dare I say, revolutionary?” 

  
  


She feels her cheeks heat up. “You flatter me. Honestly, I nearly sent myself up in flames.” 

  
  


“Oh?”

  
  


“Bit of an unexpected surge while casting. I’m just really lucky it all worked out as well as it did.” 

  
  


“You’re far too modest.” His laugh is disbelieving as he raises his glass. “I propose a toast. To you. May all your endeavors...work out.” 

  
  


Their gazes meet. 

  
  


_ Ding ding ding. We have a winner. Go big or go home, right?  _

  
  


“Would you like a tour of the school?”

  
  


His answering grin is  _ devastating _ . “Thought you’d never ask.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ Forty minutes later... _

  
  


Hermione suspects she has now officially consumed enough pinot grigio to be legally prohibited from operating heavy machinery, but as there are no forklifts or motorcars in the immediate vicinity, she doesn’t particularly care. 

  
  


Showing him around the school--her favorite places such as the library, the astronomy tower, the alcove down one particular hallway where she always knew she could read undisturbed-- is like revisiting her adolescence, minus the unrelenting terror of war and constant threat of death. 

  
  


Somewhere along the way he has taken her hand in his, occasionally rubbing his thumb in slow circles on the inside of her wrist. And she knows that a few more moments of him whispering into her ear in that deep, seductive voice, of him brushing her skin with those long, fine fingers of his, then she will reach critical mass and simply peel off her knickers then and there and ride him like a toy store pony.   

  
  


She stumbles, nearly loses her footing while navigating the moving staircase and he places his hands firmly on her hips to steady her. “You’re drunk,” he laughs. 

  
  


The realization hits Hermione with the force of a locomotive. 

  
  


She isn’t drunk. 

  
  


She isn’t drunk, but she is most definitely intoxicated, abuzz with a heady, uninhibited aura that has made her limbs feel loose and fluid, has thrown all the sensory information she is absorbing--colors, scent, _ touch _ \--into sharp, almost surreal relief. 

  
  


Swiftly, wordlessly she leads him down a series of corridors until they reach a stretch of dusty, seemingly forgotten classrooms. She swings the door open and motions for him to go inside. 

  
  


“What’s in here?” he asks as he scans the darkened room. Clearly he’s picked up on her intentions. His pupils are blown wide with lust as he glides his fingers lightly across her cheek, around the delicate shell of her ear and down her neck in a gesture that sends a dart of hot, fluttering arousal straight through her core. 

  
  


“This is the abandoned classroom where we’re going to shag.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


He holds her down atop the large desk, pins her wrists over her head as he fucks her. She grinds and rocks her hips against his with an almost desperate urgency. She is close, so very close, the delicious friction of his cock stroking  _ right there  _ inside her. 

  
  


She tips her head back, draws her gaze up the lean plane of his chest to his face and her breath hitches. His eyes  _ such a gorgeous blue _ are dark, fixed on her with an intensity that borders on feral. Something faintly tugs at her memory but she’s too far gone to chase any thoughts with coherence. 

  
  


"Marv..." she breathes,  _ "please." _

  
  


He frees one wrist, reaches down and drags his fingers in light circles over her clit as he pounds into her, hard and deep, his teeth just grazing the delicate skin along her throat. Seconds later she explodes, digging her heels into his backside, arching up so she can feel  _ all _ of him--and so he can feel the tight, rhythmic pulse of her climax. 

  
  


With a ragged moan he lets go the other wrist and grabs hold of her ass, yanking her body tight against his as he speeds up his thrusts, rapidly slamming into her. It is rough, so deliciously brutal as he plunges into her over and over and over and she simply holds onto him, fingers tightly threaded through his hair, until he shudders and lets go inside her with a loud groan.   

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ Two hours later... _

  
  


Holding hands, they slip back into the Great Hall virtually unnoticed as the celebration is in full swing.  

  
  


They’ve only just seated themselves back at their table when out of the corner of her eye she catches a quick, darting movement near the ceiling. She raises her head, her stomach sinking as she processes what it is.  _ Oh no.  _ Marv follows her gaze upward, the smile on his face sliding into a frown. 

  
  


“Who is that?”

  
  


“It’s Peeves. He’s a troublesome little pest--but...I don’t understand. He knows better,” she replies worriedly.  

  
  


Peeves swoops and glides, soaring in large, looping arcs through the Great Hall like a champion Quidditch Seeker. His antics aren’t attracting a great deal of attention from the still boisterous crowd, until a voice calls out, “Oy! Peeves! Clear off, you!”

  
  


It’s Ron. Hermione groans. This will probably not end well. 

  
  


“ _ Weasley Peasley treacle tart, Now here comes the funny part!” _ Peeves sing songs loudly as he zips back and forth, taunting Ron. 

  
  


Ron, thoroughly inebriated at this point, points his wand and shoots off a stunning hex that misses the pesky poltergeist by a wide margin. People in the audience laugh, perhaps thinking that this is some sort of arranged entertainment. 

  
  


Peeves swings around, then pauses in midair near the ceiling for a moment, his shrill cackle echoing through the Great Hall. 

  
  


Without warning, he dives. 

  
  


A collective hush falls over the crowd as Peeves flies in a sharp beeline for Ron, who stands like a frozen lump, his face scrunched in alarm. 

  
  


“What the bloody Hell is he--” she starts to say, but her words die in her throat. 

  
  


With a tremendous  _ whoosh _ , Peeves strikes Ron full force. Ron’s entire body shudders and lurches with the impact, but Peeves does not pass through and emerge on the other side as expected. Ron’s features abruptly morph, his skin taking on a greenish cast as his nose narrows and elongates to a sharp point. A moment later he straightens, and he hoots with laughter, eyeing his hands with delight. 

  
  


Harry steps forward, then, and holds his wand steady at Ron’s eye level. “Peeves. Get out of him. Right. Now.” He orders, his voice steely. 

  
  


“Oh, no, Potty!” Ron’s face contorts into a monstrous leer, “I likes it here. Gonna have fun!” 

  
  


Harry doesn’t hesitate. 

  
  


“ _Expelliarmus! Stupefy!”_

  
  


Ron’s knees bend and his body snaps back under the force of the spells, but then he springs upright with a defiant  _ Hah! _ Then he thrusts his wand out and fires a spell at the display case. 

  
  


Cries and gasps of dismay ring out as the huge pane of glass shatters.  

  
  


“No!” she shouts, shaking off her shocked inertia and propelling herself forward. She does not understand how it is even possible. Ron should never have been able to pierce the wards on the case. 

  
  


This is not just bad, this is a  _ disaster _ . 

  
  


Shards of glass shower the crowd. The more quick thinking individuals erect shields that allow the flying shards to fall harmlessly to the floor. 

  
  


As Hermione darts away from him, easily maneuvering her way through the paralyzed onlookers, Marv allows himself a small private smile. 

  
  


The real show is about to begin. 

  
  


Before Harry or anyone else can recover their composure, Ron aims his wand with lightning quickness and again lobs a spell at the case, striking one of the relics. All at once a pulsating wave of blue green energy radiates outward through the entire Hall. 

  
  


The doors slam shut with a resounding boom. 

  
  


Hermione’s skin tingles--it feels like an icy spray of water as it passes through her and every other person present. A terrible foreboding seizes her as not only are the Founder’s items exposed and vulnerable, but they may be trapped. 

  
  


With the fluid, precise motion of well honed reflexes, Harry rises from his crouched position and flicks his wand at Ron. 

  
  


Hermione cannot begin to guess what spell he attempts to cast, but the words that come out of Harry’s mouth stop her dead in her tracks. 

  
  


“ _Flaming fuckweasel!”_

  
  


Harry freezes in shock and she nearly skids into him, hastily pointing her wand at the open case. Internally, her brain and mouth work in unison to form the spell  _ reparo,  _ her wand traces the correct motions automatically, but what emerges from her lips is,  “ _ Gangrenous twatswabber!”  _

  
  


Laughter erupts from a few of the more intoxicated partygoers, while the dull roar of background chatter dies away to murmurs of unease as the more sober individuals begin to absorb what is happening. 

  
  


Exchanging a horrified glance, Hermione and Harry each take aim at their respective targets and try again. 

  
  


“ _One handed wand wizard!”_

  
  


“ _ Crap cradling suckpocket!”  _ If the situation was not so serious, she would likely be snickering madly because really, that doesn’t even  _ make sense _ . 

  
  


“This isn’t funny, Peeves!” Harry is shouting, “whatever you’ve done, fix it!”

  
  


Ron reaches both hands into his pants and scratches, gyrates his pelvis crudely and opens his mouth in an exaggerated O, then hunches over and unleashes an impressively prolonged fart as loud as a foghorn. “There,” he crows, “how’s that fix it for yeh?”

  
  


Harry curses loudly. 

  
  


The Great Hall explodes into absolute chaos. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ Six and one half minutes later... _

  
  


Images from several notable Muggle disaster movies flicker through Harry’s brain as he half jostles, half dodges his way through the crowd, having quickly abandoned any pretense of attempting to calm or direct the throngs of panicked witches and wizards currently barreling through the Great Hall like rats trying to escape a sinking ship. Shacklebolt stands at the lectern, his voice hopelessly drowned out by the surging, hysterical crowd. 

  
  


He isn’t sure where Hermione has ended up. 

  
  


Wild eyed and disheveled, he slams against the table where Neville, Luna and Ginny have remained seated. 

  
  


Neville appears uncharacteristically serene, to a point just short of catatonic. He gazes dreamily at the unfolding fiasco before him and comments to Harry, “You know, when you think about it, he’s just like us, really.” 

  
  


“Who’s just like us?”

  
  


“Peeves. He’s, like,” Neville gestures for emphasis, “a manifestation of all our most basic, primal human instincts, seeking a means of expression.”

  
  


“Like a flubbering garglesharter,” Luna chimes in.

  
  


Ginny swivels her head to face her and slurs accusingly, “You just completely made that up.”

  
  


Luna regards her seriously for a full minute, then calmly states, “Sometimes I just really like to fuck with people.”

  
  


She and Ginny then explode in a fit of giggles.  

  
  


Harry blinks several times in rapid succession, unabashedly gaping at the glassy eyed trio in disbelief. “What? Are you--Neville, what the actual fuck have you lot been  _ smoking _ ?”

  
  


Neville slides a small, hand blown glass pipe across the table toward him and nods encouragingly. “It’s my own Private Reserve blend.” 

  
  


Suddenly, Harry understands the recent, insane and historically unprecedented popularity of Seventh Year Herbology.

  
  


“No thanks, mate, I--” 

  
  


Harry trails off as the screeching din of the Hall washes over him once again, punctuated with the crash of breaking plates, tables and benches being upended, and the ear splitting shrieks of attempted spell casting.  

  
  


“ _Fart felching cunt humper!”_

  
  


“ _Monkey spanking shit slapper!”_

  
  


“ _Pustulent rat rectum!”_

  
  


His eyes slide closed in defeat. “Fuck it. Hand it over.”

  
  


* * *

_ Eleven minutes later...  _

  
  


Harry sits, reclining with his elbows planted squarely on the table, and regards the still spiralling disaster around him with a now unflappable equanimity. It is absurdly comical how many partygoers are still trying to cast spells. Fucking idiots. The entire situation, though, is considerably less annoying than it was only a few minutes ago, thanks to Neville’s timely herbal intervention. 

  
  


As he observes Shacklebolt and a few other authoritarian figures vainly attempt to exert some minimal degree of order over the situation, he is struck by the profound insight that control is essentially an illusion, a pipe dream that ultimately inhibits man’s deeper understanding of the universe. 

  
  


Speaking of pipe dreams...

  
  


“ _ Fucking hell _ , Neville. This is some good shit.” 

  
  


Neville nods genially in agreement and takes another swig of butterbeer. 

  
  


Harry watches as Ron--or Peeves, or whatever the fuck hybrid monstrosity it is they are dealing with-- shuffles over to one of the only remaining intact buffet tables. It is the dessert table, piled high with a myriad of elf made cakes, pastries, and chocolate covered fruit, and bellows, “Now this is what I call a party!”

  
  


With both hands he greedily shovels food into his mouth in a display that is somehow simultaneously repellent and mesmerizing before abruptly diverting from the table to seize Romilda Vane, who appears to have wandered haplessly across his path. Ron gropes her outrageously, smearing chocolate and pastry filling across her robes,  then tries to insert his tongue into her ear as he humps against her leg like a hyperactive poodle. 

  
  


Harry grimaces. Earwax. _ Blecch _ . 

  
  


To her credit, Romilda instantly clenches her fist, hauls back and slugs Ron smartly in the face. His head snaps back from the impact, and for a few seconds the greenish silhouette of Peeves’s face is visibly separated from Ron’s. 

  
  


Harry sits up sharply, an idea beginning to coalesce in his brain. “That’s...that’s  _ good _ . That could work.” 

  
  


“What could work?” Ginny asks fuzzily. She has apparently shaken off enough of her torpor to once again form a coherent sentence. 

  
  


Nodding towards Ron he replies, “I’m going to punch him really, _ really _ hard in the head. As many times as it takes.”

  
  


Blank faced, she stares at him for the few seconds it takes to process his words. “But that could  _ kill _ him.”

  
  


“This is Ron we’re talking about.”

  
  


“Yeah...Right. Carry on.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Like a magnet, Marv is drawn forward; the roaring cacophony of the crowd falls away as his eyes focus on the locket. 

  
  


His locket. 

  
  


His legacy and birthright. 

  
  


When he is close enough he simply opens his hand and with a silent pulse of magic, the locket flies out of the shattered, open case and smacks neatly into his outstretched palm. Pure, ancient magic surges through him, the connection to his ancestor potent enough to make him light headed for a moment. 

  
  


As he turns from the case he feels the tip of a wand digging into his neck and he smiles. 

  
  


“ Not so fast. Who  _ are _ you?” 

  
  


Caramel eyes hold his in a stark, steely glare. She is absolutely exquisite in her anger, this one.  Brilliant and exceptional and fierce. Pity he’s not prepared to take her with him.  _ Yet. _

  
  


He grins at her, slides his arm around her waist, and croons into her ear, “Oh...I think  _ you know who _ .”  

  
  


Hermione’s eyes widen, but she holds her wand steady even as his hair darkens, grows longer and wavier, and his skin tone fades to a pale alabaster. His eyes, though--his eyes remain the same. 

  
  


Suddenly he bends her back, and seals his lips to hers in a searing, passionate kiss that leaves her completely breathless. 

  
  


He then swiftly steps away from her and winks. “Until next time... _ girlie _ .”

  
  


“ _Bollocking Wank Wad!”_

  
  


His loud laugh reverberates through her as he disapparates.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Harry can’t remember the last time he was in an actual fist fight, but he doesn’t anticipate a terribly forceful response, given what he knows of Peeves. 

  
  


Striding up to Ron he assumes a semi wide legged stance and raises his fists. Ron leers at him, a sticky, smeary circle of chocolate and cream around his mouth, and Harry reminds himself to aim for the nose and temples because he does not want that nasty shit touching his hands. 

  
  


Hopefully, Ron will not suffer any permanent cognitive impairment from the multiple blows to the head Harry is about to inflict, but in the end he might just have to take one for the team. 

  
  


Without hesitating Harry lands a one two punch that rocks Ron’s head and upper body back sharply. He rebounds, swinging upright  like an inflatable punch bag toy, groans, and then promptly vomits all over Harry’s shoes. 

  
  


“ _ Bloody Hell!  _ Those are Italian leather!” Harry shouts, face scrunching up in disgust. 

  
  


“Not anymore,” Ron burps. 

  
  


“ Right then,” Harry mutters. All bets are off because damnit, he loves those shoes, and best friend or no, Ron is going  _ down _ . Harry bodily hurls himself at him, knocking him onto his back. 

  
  


With a resounding  _ whack! _ Ron’s head strikes the hard stone floor, and at once a greenish light coalesces in front of his face. Peeves glances at Harry and snickers, “Well, it was fun while it lasted!” before shooting into the air and zipping out of the Hall like a meteor. 

  
  


A wave of prickly, crackling energy cascades throughout the Great Hall before dissipating. 

  
  


Tentatively, various witches and wizards lift their wands and attempt to cast small cleaning charms, and a small swell of applause grows as they realize their ordeal is over. 

  
  


Harry stares at the weary crowd, a goofy smile breaking on his face. 

  
  


Once again he has saved the Wizarding World from a fate worse than...well, he doesn’t actually know what the fuck just happened here tonight--but he is fairly certain that he is officially _ hot shit _ .  

  
  


Ron’s eyes dart around uncertainly before fixing on his. “Hey.”

  
  


“Hey.”

  
  


“Errr...mate, why am I on the floor?” he asks a bit sluggishly, a grotesque mask of various dessert sauces and sick still caked across the lower half of his face. 

  
  


Harry continues to stare distantly. He really is the fucking  _ Chosen One _ . Or is he? Does choice actually exist? This is a conundrum he should spend some more time exploring. Perhaps Neville will lend him his pipe. For scientific purposes, of course. “Does it matter?” 

  
  


“Nahhh…” Ron answers. He brightens considerably, though it is clear he is still not firing on all cylinders. “Is it still open bar?” 

  
  


Harry smiles placidly, then claps his hand on Ron’s shoulder. “Sure, why not,” he says agreeably. 

  
  


“Well, alright then.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Hermione sits, staring into space, seemingly oblivious to the bustle of activity around her as wizards and witches pitch in to clean up the horrific mess. 

  
  


She is such an idiot. 

  
  


_ Marv _ was dropping hints like anvils, and she missed them all.  _ The  _ _ bloody wanker!  _

  
  


She is unsure how she is ever going to explain how she not only resurrected Voldemort, she had sex with him, and now he is on the loose. With Slytherin’s Locket.  

  
  


_ Okay, so...worst one night stand EVER. Look on the bright side.  _

  
  


_ There is no bright side. _

  
  


She puts her face in her hands and wonders if it’s not too late to get a job at Starbucks. 

  
  
  


 


	2. Part Two

A/N: This may or may not be comprehensible. I own nothing. Enjoy!

 

****

Part Two

* * *

_One month later..._

"I'd like a Venti black coffee with a shot of espresso, please."

Hermione's fingers freeze, hovering over the keypad on the register.

That voice.

She hesitates, doesn't immediately look up as a hot, prickly wave of fury, indignation, and unexpectedly-shamefully- excitement crashes through her, sending a flush of red across her cheeks and down her neck.

Her voice is remarkably calm as she replies, "Black. Of course."

Her eyes flick upward and lock with his.

_Just like your soul._

_Arsehole._

"Anything else for you today?" She lifts her chin and says it like a challenge.

"Depends." He grins, reaches around for his wallet, his corduroy blazer shifting to the side just enough to reveal a tight forest green crew neck tee emblazoned with the words ZERO FUCKS TO GIVE in bold, white block letters. "Isn't it about time for you to go on your break?"

As she hands him his cup he brushes long pale fingers deliberately against hers. She grits her teeth, eyeing him warily as he adjusts the wide strap of a brown leather folio bag slung casually over his shoulder.

Just standing in the middle of Starbucks- posture relaxed, coffee in hand, with artfully mussed hair and elegant sculpted features-looking as if he just stepped off the runway in Milan, he claims the attention of everyone with the sheer force of his smooth, effortless charisma.

And she reminds herself that he is a murderer, he is a monster who pushed past all boundaries of humanity-recklessly sacrificing his sanity for the elusive promise of eternal life. A monster who held, albeit briefly, the fate of the entire Wizarding World in his hands.

A monster who happens to look distractingly good in tight jeans.

He jerks his head toward one of the few empty tables near the back of the shop, then without waiting for a response simply turns and strolls toward it.

His audacity is utterly breathtaking. For a second, she can only gape at the back of his head.

As she unties her apron she briefly pivots back toward her manager, only to see the older woman nodding appreciatively and mouthing "Damn, girl" while not so subtly making a fist pump motion in front of her chest.

Casting her eyes heavenward, she prays for strength before approaching the table.

* * *

_One minute later..._

"So...How's life in the service industry treating you?"

"It's just sodding fabulous, Marv." she snaps scornfully. " _Marv!_ God, I can't believe I ever fell for that! What kind of a name is that, anyway?"

"I think it would be fairly obvious at this point," he replies, eyes crinkled in amusement.

He takes a leisurely draw from his coffee, his eyes fixed on her over the rim of the cup. "Come now, what did you expect? That I'd have a bloody sign 'round my neck saying _I'm the Dark Lord! Keep Calm and Avada Kedavra!_ " He jabs his finger toward her and says, admonishing, "maybe if you hadn't been so fixated on getting your knickers torn off, you'd have been a bit more observant."

"Please don't remind me that I actually had sex with you."

"Why not? As I recall, you were decidedly... _enthusiastic."_

"You _used_ me."

"Of course I did. Are you expecting me to be sorry?" Extending his hand, he twines a loose curl around his index finger, then smirks. "Because I'm really, really not."

It is at that moment that the cool, logical, _dominant_ part of her brain decides that a holiday abroad is long overdue, and departs in a mental flurry of screeching tires and dust. In the resulting vacuum there is a brief but vicious struggle between Survival Instincts and Blind, Raging Impulses and only by the barest of margins does Hermione manage to resist seizing the cup and dumping the scalding coffee onto his crotch.

As she brings her breathing back under control she realizes he is observing her, head ever so slightly tilted to one side. "Careful," he murmurs, "I'm not going to hurt you, Hermione-unless of course you piss me off, which _that_ certainly would- and then you and everyone in here become _fair game._ "

_Had he just-? Son of a motherfucking…_

"Why are you even here?" she grits out.

"I would ask you the same question. I find it difficult to believe you would simply walk away from your life, and everything you know over a failed social event, even one as comedically disastrous as the dedication ceremony. Yet, here you are."

"Believe whatever you want. I was-"

He cuts her off. "Save it. I should mention that I've been following the Daily Prophet in recent weeks, and I've noticed something _rather curious_. Care to guess what that is?"

"I have no idea." _Oh, buggering hell. So much for bluffing_.

"There's been absolutely no mention of the disappearance of the locket. Why is that, I wonder? Surely the Ministry wouldn't cover up the theft of such a precious artifact." He leans across the table, and his voice drops to a deep, intimate timbre, "not even for you."

His gaze shifts, grows hard and sharp and measured as a laser. She wants to squirm under his unrelenting scrutiny, and her stomach swoops and flips like a roller coaster as she finally begins to comprehend that this is not the Dark Lord she'd fought whilst in school- this isn't the volatile, erratic monster ultimately crippled by his own madness.

The man seated before her is whole-fully in command of all his faculties, complete with prodigious intellect, astute observational skills, and exponentially more dangerous- and she presses her hands hard against the cool surface of the table in an attempt to conceal their trembling as the magnitude of what she has so unwittingly unleashed upon the world becomes clear to her.

For an instant she is seized by the nearly overwhelming impulse to flee, but by Merlin's Crusty Toe Jam she is still _Hermione Bloody Granger_ , and she manages to stare back, unflinching.

"I...transfigured a broken plate and slipped it into the case. With all the chaos, no one even noticed."

A slow, approving smile spreads across his face and he chuckles. "Well. Aren't you just full of surprises?"

Without preamble he then pulls a thick, royal blue folder from his folio bag and slides it across the table to her. The word Prospectus is embossed on the front in swirling gold script. "Do you remember what I said to you that night?"

"You said a lot of things," she mutters, unable to fully erase the hint of accusation in her tone as she opens the folder and begins to read.

_The purpose of this research is to explore and investigate the efficacy of the biomagical therapies described herein for the treatment of congenital magical abnormalities or deficiencies--_

Her eyes widen; she flips through the pages of the proposal in growing astonishment.

"You've made some modifications," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Very minor ones, yes."

"This is…this is a cure for _Squibs_."

She almost can't believe what she is reading. Her mind reels and the world tilts on its axis; with a single, decisive stroke he has just hurled her fundamental understanding of, well, _everything_ into complete disarray.

The words filling the pages in neat, structured paragraphs might as well be hieroglyphics because they simply do not compute.

"I said it was revolutionary, didn't I?"

"Why?"

"Tell me, Hermione, what do you imagine will happen when you unleash this," he says, tapping the folder, "on the Wizarding public at large?"

"Well, for one, centuries of disgusting social injustice disguised as tradition will suddenly become meaningless-- but that doesn't answer the question."

"Do you even understand what I am giving you?" An undercurrent of impatience colors his tone.

She does.

The _what_ is perfectly concrete.

He is handing her, of all people, the means to rock the very foundation of the society that has held her in contempt simply because of the circumstances of her birth. But it's the _why_ she can't wrap her brain around. Before she can stop herself, she blurts out, "I still don't get it--you _hate_ Muggleborns. And Muggles.

Something akin to grudging distaste crosses his features, as if he is smelling something unpleasant. "I have very recently come to the conclusion that Muggles are not...entirely useless. The coffee, for example. It is... _adequate_."

The way his mouth forms around the word makes it appear like it is actually painful to say.

"Adequate." She repeats almost teasingly.

"Yes."

His attempt at nonchalance does not fool her, and she is suddenly gripped by an inexplicable desire to grin like an idiot and needle him further. She doesn't though, as that road can only lead to Cruciata-ville, a place known for its festive, colorful Pinatas of Pain.

_Get a grip, for fuck sake._

Her brain is awhirl, processing her long suppressed idealized notions of demolishing certain rigid, backwards social institutions with the implications of moving forward with his proposal. "It's going to be utter chaos."

"Hmmm," he hums, "payback's a bitch, isn't it?"

"But...I thought you wanted Purebloods on your side?"

He waves his hand dismissively. "Pfft. Purebloods. Intellectual prowess of mollusks, the lot of them. Take this research, for example. To them it's all just _big words, big words, blah blah blah oh wait, I understand that one! Big words._ "

Her face scrunches in confusion. "So how does any of this actually benefit you?"

A wicked smile curls the corners of his mouth, "One revolution at a time, darling. So. Are you _in?_ "

She should say no.

She should positively, definitely say NO. Clearly, nefarious workings are afoot. The prudent course of action would be to exit the coffee shop with all due haste and make another life for herself.

Someplace safe.

Like Siberia.

Because this is a deal with the Devil. It's morally questionable, very likely rigged, and bound to bite her in the arse in the worst possible way.

On the other hand…

There is no other hand.

"Yes."

 

_Fin_


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Had some random dialogue bouncing around my head for a while, and I just decided to flesh it out into an actual scene.**
> 
> **Enjoy!**

The following scene is completely, utterly pointless.

_Sixteen hours later…_

The steady, distant hum of traffic, punctuated by the occasional sharp blare of car horns, slowly draws Hermione to wakefulness.

She is comfortably ensconced in a plush, king size bed, in an excessively posh hotel room, and through a set of double French doors that lead out to a magnificent, wrought iron railed balcony, she can just make out the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower towering over the skyline.

_Paris._

_Niiiice._

She snuggles back into her downy cocoon just as an arm suddenly flings itself over her and tightens around her waist. A lean, muscled, very _masculine_ arm.

_Oh, no. Oh, sodding hell._

Her palm smacks firmly against her forehead as she groans, "I don't bloody believe it."

And then he's pressed tightly to her, his lips just grazing the shell of her ear. "What's not to believe?"

He is entirely too cheerful.

"That I just had sex with you. Again."

Abruptly he sits up and holds his hands out flat, palms up. "Then perhaps you should consider examining the relationship between," he lifts one hand as though it was a balance on a scale,"your blood alcohol content," then raises the other, "and the threshold at which you achieve spontaneous knicker removal."

Her jaw drops unattractively. She doesn't care. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Only that you become decidedly _randy_ after imbibing a surprisingly small quantity of pinot grigio."

"You're saying I'm _easy_ ," she shoots back, voice hovering somewhere between angry and mortified.

Without warning he literally dives onto her, pinning her back against the pillows. His breath is hot and moist and ticklish on her neck. "On the contrary, darling. There is," he pauses, planting a slow, sensuous kiss on her jaw, "nothing," he kisses her again, teases her with his tongue, "easy," another kiss, "about," he slides his open mouth down her neck and she melts into him, her hips wriggling _just a little_ , "you."

Then he tickles her.

His hands are groping, playfully grabbing and pinching as he continues to lavish kisses on her. She is gasping and shrieking with laughter, "Stop!"

She vainly squirms underneath him, giggling uncontrollably and completely breathless, "Stop that! I- " He then does something wicked and absolutely fucking divine with his tongue. "Alright, you can… _oh_ -oh, keep doing _that_."

* * *

_Two hours later_

"I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that the term _consequences_ is simply not part of your vocabulary, is it?"

Tom's lips are pursed, his brow furrowed in thought. " _Consequences,_ " he repeats, slowly, before shaking his head. "Sorry, not ringing any bells."

"And suddenly, seven horcruxes make perfect sense."

Impatiently, he rolls his eyes. "Alright, so _hindsight_ and all that rubbish. I am coming to terms with the possibility that long term risk management may not be one of my stronger points."

"You never once considered that there were risks and yes, _consequences_ for repeatedly murdering people in cold blood, so that you could split your soul in one of the darkest rituals ever known to magic?"

"I was _fifteen_ ," he sniffs disdainfully, "consequences were for _Hufflepuffs_. Besides, it's not like there was a warning label regarding the side effects."

She can't quite decide whether she wants to facepalm again, or smack his giant, egotistical head. "That's because, to the average, _not insane_ person, a spell book entitled _Magick Moste Evile_ would be considered self explanatory!"

"I will concede that there was some unforeseen, rather regrettable aftereffects where my capacity for rational, logical thought was...slightly diminished."

" _Diminished_?" she echoed, disbelieving. "Tom, the clinical term for your mental state would be categorized as _Batshit Loony Toon._ "

"You…" he hisses, his temper flaring, "insolent _harpy!_ I had the entire _Ministry_ under my control in the space of a _day_!"

Abruptly, he clenches his fist, and Hermione bites her lip to stifle the guffaw that threatens to erupt at his momentary, unintended resemblance to a cartoon supervillain.

"You and your psychotic puppet regime couldn't run a bloody rigged carnival game, let alone the government!"

"I ran the Ministry with unprecedented efficiency, thank you bloody much! During the nine months of my administration, there was a ninety nine percent drop in workplace absenteeism!"

"Says the man whose campaign slogan was ' _If I Don't Kill You, The Dementors Probably Will._ "

After seeming to halt in his tracks, he pauses for a moment, then sulkily mutters something under his breath.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Dementors don't actually kill you."

"Technically, that's true. They simply doom you to an existence as an empty, soulless husk." Her lip curves into a smirk. "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"

For a full minute he just stares at her, his expression stony. Then he huffs out a breath and says, "Okay, _fine_. There may have been some... deficiencies in the public relations department."

Hermione grabs a pillow and smacks him as hard as she can.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I hope you enjoyed this. If you did, don't be shy!
> 
> There will be a short epilogue.
> 
> I have to been working to finish Euphoria, and then I will be working on This Slender thread exclusively for the foreseeable future. Also, I just started a new, full time job (yay! paychecks!) so that will have an impact on the frequency of my updates, but I do have the next several chapters blocked out.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and have a Happy New Year!


End file.
